Chapter 340: Bearing the Curse

Except for Henwell’s two warhorses, all the other pack animals collapse to the ground.

As for the survivors, Henwell’s sharp shout drains the color from their faces.

Henwell scans the group. “Stay put! Running around now means certain death!”

Henwell barely knows these people, so he doesn’t particularly care if they live or die.

But after traveling together for two days, saving them is a small act of kindness, merely accumulating some good karma.

Besides, Henwell wants as many survivors as possible to live, so he can test some of his theories.

Right now, their lives hold some value to him, at least as experimental subjects.

After Henwell’s command, the group’s nerves calm a bit.

They’ve all witnessed Henwell’s fierce combat skills; having such a powerful protector nearby offers some comfort.

Henwell crouches and presses his hand on the desert surface where the bodies vanished.

When the corpses disappeared, he sensed a strong extraordinary energy wave.

Calling it an extraordinary wave isn’t quite right, it feels more like a higher-level force fluctuation.

Henwell is certain it’s not from any living creature.

Rather, the desert beneath the bodies suddenly formed a special zone.

He inspects the ground carefully but finds no visible abnormalities, frowning again.

At that moment, Papaste anxiously pleads, “Please, sir, save my friend! I’ll pay you whatever you want!”

Papaste’s last remaining knight guard has also been wounded by the mummies—or rather, the Withered Legion.

The knight’s chest bears a huge gash, flesh torn open and already showing signs of drying out.

Fortunately, as a knight, he carries a Fighting Spirit and strong vitality; otherwise, he’d have turned into a dry corpse by now.

Henwell glances at Papaste. “How do you know I can save him?”

Before Papaste can answer, Henwell places his hand on the knight’s wound.

Blood Will surges from his palm, a mist of blood enveloping the injury.

Henwell senses he’s suppressing the strange power inside the knight’s body.

He looks up at Mbatu. “Withered Legion? Lightchaser Fleet? I’m curious. What exactly are these? Can you explain?”

Mbatu remains silent for a long moment. “I can. But not now.”

Henwell grins. “Because you can’t tell their story out here in the desert, right?”

Seeing Mbatu nod, Henwell lightly nods back. “Fine. Let’s get moving. I can’t wait to leave this desert and hear your story.”

By evening, guided by Mbatu, the group finally glimpses the edge of the desert.

When that patch of green appears before them, bathed in the sunset’s glow, everyone freezes for a moment.

Then, as if shaking off their numbness, they burst forward wildly toward the shrubs marking the desert’s border.

As the soft sand beneath their feet turns into firm earth, most collapse to the ground, howling with relief and grief.

Henwell watches from a distance, quietly understanding their emotions.

Though caravan trading is inherently risky, and every member expects injury or death, natural disasters, human treachery, and greed are constant threats on their journey.

But the Lightchaser Fleet and the desert’s Withered Legion were beyond anything they could have imagined.

Such horrors shatter an ordinary person’s mind.

That they’ve held on this far, only breaking down now that real danger is behind them, shows how strong their spirits truly are.

They don’t keep Henwell waiting long.

After a quick confirmation of their position, the group presses on, eager to put as much distance as possible between themselves and the Scorching Sand Sea, the place destined to haunt their nightmares forever.

Though night falls, they push forward.

Fortunately, the nearest village isn’t too far away.

The bright moon overhead provides ample light for their journey.

After more than two hours of travel, the group spots lights flickering in the distance.

Without pausing, they rush into the village.

Some of the more experienced caravan members quickly find lodging.

They rent out a small inn for everyone.

Papaste generously covers all food and accommodation expenses, and the only suite is reserved for Henwell.

Henwell doesn’t refuse and moves in immediately.

After all, he did save Papaste’s life; a little comfort is well deserved.

Once Henwell finishes freshening up, Mbatu and Papaste have been waiting outside the door for some time.

Henwell invites them in to talk.

Mbatu wastes no time: “Sir, I want to warn everyone, in your name, not to speak of what we’ve experienced.”

Henwell gestures for them to sit. “I assume you’re not trying to hoard this information as some exclusive secret to boost your guiding business. Then you need to give me a solid reason. My word carries weight, but I understand the truth behind things. I don’t vouch for things blindly.”

Mbatu falls silent for a moment. “Sir, I only want what’s best for everyone. The Scorching Sand Sea’s secrets can’t be spoken aloud. Over the years, many caravans have crossed it, surely encountering even stranger things. Many survived the Black Storm, witnessed the Lightchaser Fleet firsthand, and lived to tell the tale. So why are there no legends or stories outside? Why do those who experienced it remain silent?”

Henwell takes a sip of wine. “Cut the riddles. I want an explanation, not a guessing game.”

Mbatu hurriedly clarifies, “Sir, I don’t mean to be cryptic. I just want to say there’s still great danger behind this. Though we’ve left the Scorching Sand Sea, we’re not free from its influence.”

”The strangest parts, like the Lightchaser Fleet, the Withered Legion, they’re like a curse. Once you know about them, you’re affected. If we try to speak or record these experiences, we briefly lose focus and forget what we intended to say.”

”From that moment, our memories start fading—first the Scorching Sand Sea itself, then other memories, until eventually, we remember nothing.”

Henwell recalls a term—Meme Contamination.

He’s somewhat familiar with the concept but hasn’t been much affected himself.

After a moment’s thought, Henwell nods. “Alright. You two will warn everyone in my name—no one is to speak of this. If necessary, everyone signs two confidentiality agreements: one for me, which I’ll have monitored, and…”

Henwell looks to Papaste. “The other goes to you. You’re responsible for enforcing the agreement.”